


palm full of petals

by marquelict



Series: HP one shots [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, gardener astoria, ginny's into pottery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquelict/pseuds/marquelict
Summary: Astoria picks flowers for Ginny.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Ginny Weasley
Series: HP one shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790935
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	palm full of petals

**Author's Note:**

> “Oh, a woman, what a wonderful thing! Add two wings and you have an angel!” — Gustave Flaubert

Astoria had curated her garden to absolute perfection. 

Boxed in by a white fence, vines curling up the posts, were tall and spindly hollyhocks, bushes bunched with hydrangeas, stalks of lavender that stretched upward, yearning, and dripping wisteria that fell around the gate that led into the garden, that led to the cottage. 

There was order to everything. Color, smell, size. 

She sat on a gardening mat, white and cushy, as she worked her hands through the soil. It was better this way. Better without magic to mutilate the mundanity of it all.

A bee, buzzing, flitted about the garden, swirling and diving as it surveyed the different patches of flowers that blossomed. It hovered, dipping and rising and dipping, before carrying on to the next patch.

Astoria blew a strand of hair that fell into her face, sweat creeping on her brow, sticking to her temples. 

Her fingers curled in the soil, the dirt moving beneath her nails as she parted it. With delicate precision she dropped a smattering of tiny seeds before moving the soil back over to cover it.

She moved on, continuing to plant seeds as the humming sound of bees carried on, their soft buzzing sounds floating on the brisk wind that riffled through the garden every once in a while.

Satisfied in her work that afternoon, Astoria ran an arm across her forehead. The day was still bright and heavy, the way it had been every day since she’d purchased this cottage with her wife, Ginny. The same it always was when the sun rose and when it set and when someone — Ginny — kissed another — Astoria — longingly, in the comfort of the afternoon rays. 

Ginny was inside their cottage now. Probably whittling away at a new piece of pottery. She’d always liked the way it felt to create things: bowls, platters, vases. And the vases that Ginny created Astoria would fill with flowers from her garden.

It had always been like that ever since Ginny quit Quidditch. 

They were forty, now, and growing older by the second and life seemed to never stop. 

Astoria, however, never really  _ felt _ old when she swayed in Ginny’s arms, a song bubbling up from a vinyl that spun in an ancient turntable. She felt, instead, new. Newness, the idea of new things, being new, being invited into the world by old. She felt held.

Astoria, humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar to a Celestina song that played endlessly from the wireless in the kitchen, made her way over to the rambling roses, pink and bright, that clung in clusters off the vines. 

She plucked at them, her fingers thin and gentle as she took them in her palm. 

Bundling them together, Astoria, with the snap of her fingers, vanished the gardening mat she’d been using and turned to the cottage. 

The roof, old and thatched, sloped sideways like a lop-sided hat. Its brim fell over the cottage, coating the windows and their sills in shadows. The windows were always open except when it rained and were host to the couples dozing cat, Daisy, more often than not. 

Astoria pushed the door open, the makeshift bouquet of roses in her other hand. 

She craned her eyes, searching for her wife, who was not in the foyer, nor the living room on the plush couch, nor in the kitchen, hands deep in flour. 

Astoria’s ears, however, picked up a soft thrum from Ginny’s workshop. A brief smile passed the brunette’s lips, parted and tender. 

Quietly, she made her way to the workshop, propping the door open with her hip. 

Ginny hadn’t heard nor noticed her arrival. She was currently busy with what appeared to be the beginnings of a bowl, hands slick with wet clay. Her slender fingers worked at the clay, molding it with careful precision — just like Astoria worked at the soil in her garden.

In so many ways they were wildly alike. 

“Hey, honey,” Astoria said, loud enough for Ginny to hear over the hum of the muggle machine — Astoria had not yet learned the name — that spun the bowl, but soft enough to make Ginny positively melt on the spot.

Ginny looked up, the spinning coming to a halt. “ _ Blasted _ ,” Ginny muttered. “I’ll have to start over.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Astoria frowned, taking a step so that she was fully in the room. 

“It’s nothing, don’t fret.”

Ginny stood, taking a look at her hands, wet and dirty. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “It’s…”

“It’s nothing,” Astoria replied and with the wave of her hands — her magic wandless and sharp — cleaned the clay off Ginny’s fingers and palms. 

Ginny smiled, her eyes dropping to the makeshift bouquet in Astoria’s hand. 

“You brought me more flowers.”

“I did,” Astoria said, voice gentle as it clung in the air. “Do you like them?”

“They’re gorgeous.”

Astoria approached Ginny gracefully, legs swiftly carrying her calmly to her destination like a leaf, rolling gently on stream. She pressed the bunch of roses into her wife’s hand, the tips of their fingers brushing.

And although Astoria had probably kissed every inch of Ginny; every piece of skin from the pads of her fingers to the softness of her wrist to the hardness of her knuckles, Astoria still felt the rush of fire flicker through her body.

“I can’t accept this freely,” Ginny said, bringing the roses to her nose. 

Astoria tried to force a smile down, but failed miserably. “You know I don’t take money as a form of payment.”

“Would you accept a kiss as payment, then, perhaps?”

“From you?” Astoria said lightly. “Always.”

Ginny beamed, her hand gripping the roses falling to her side as Astoria moved to cup her cheek. Ginny leaned into the touch, needy, as though she’d been apart from Astoria for decades, for centuries. 

Light and soft, Astoria lowered her lips to Ginny’s and caught them. Forty and they still had passion, still had lust thundering through their veins, still craved every inch of the other.

Astoria’s tongue slipped through Ginny’s lips as they parted slightly and Ginny graciously accepted the advance. She leaned into the kiss further, letting Astoria tear into her.

She did not drop the flowers, nor clench them too tight.

When their kiss would eventually subside, Astoria would creep to the corner of the workshop and sit, perched, on the edge of a stool and watch Ginny place the flowers in a vase and fill it with water as if by magic. She would watch Ginny return to the muggle machine, to her wet clay, to her bowls and platters and vases. 

But for now, Ginny was sweet and delicious and Astoria ached with hunger.


End file.
